


A Very Normal Ride on the Bus

by badsunflower



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Gen, One Shot, Original Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:07:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28084434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badsunflower/pseuds/badsunflower
Summary: Creative writing part 3 :)





	A Very Normal Ride on the Bus

It’s November 14th, 1998, it’s midday, maybe 2pm. It’s unseasonably humid for late autumn; everyone else on the bus is dressed comfortably in light jackets or sweaters. I, however, am covered nearly from tip to toe in a fashionably goth outfit consisting of long black pants and a matching shirt, a duster-length black trench coat, an oversized toque atop my head, and a pair of heavy, black boots that give nicely commanding thuds when I walk. I hold my briefcase comfortably in my lap as the bus clunks over another pothole in the road, its windows rattling slightly.

I gaze around the bus calmly, trying my best not to let a smug grin creep its way out. These people know nothing. All of them, weak and clueless. Anyone else in my situation would probably be experiencing some form of anxiety right about now: cold sweats, clammy hands, all of that nonsense. Anyone else would have something of an inner monologue to the effect of, “This is socially unacceptable. You should probably stop,” but my brain doesn’t really know right from wrong; therefore, I do whatever I want. I turn my attention from the other bus riders, out the front window of the bus. I’m nearly there now.

Four more stops.

My grip on my briefcase tightens slightly as we make a sharp turn, now heading down Queen Street. A charming mom-and-pop diner catches my eye, and I make a mental note to swing by some time. Family-owned businesses aren’t the most profitable jobs, but they are the most fun.

Three more stops.

The bus tips down slightly as Queen Street becomes a hill, making its awkward, boxy decent to its destination.

Two more stops.

I take a few calming breaths in through my nose and out through my mouth in attempt to slow the excited beating of my heart. The air inside the bus is stale and metallic.

One more stop.

I pull the chord behind me and a soft _ding_ sounds from the front of the bus. Standing up, I transfer my briefcase gracefully into my left hand and straighten my coat with my right and make my way to the front door of the bus.

The bus slows to a stop, and I turn to wink at the driver before striding off the bus and onto the sidewalk. The wind has picked up, giving the air an ominous chill, accented with the scent of decaying leaves and rain. _How fitting._ I straighten my posture and begin to walk calmly down the street, glancing around blank-faced at the boring civilians bustling around. It’s almost cinematic, really. Someone should write a movie about me.

I skid to a quick stop in front of my destination, feeling little bits of concrete and sand grind under my heel. I stand before the great building, head tilted upward. _United Bank of England_ is written above the door in ancient stone. I take a few more deep breaths and swiftly yank my toque over my face and peer through its crudely cut eyeholes. In one impressively quick movement, I push open the bank’s heavy double doors and lock them behind me. Somehow, no one has noticed me yet. I unlatch my briefcase and pull out an ornate German pistol, taking some steps forward to close the distance between me and a bank teller who has caught my eye. I fire three rounds into the marble ceiling.

I give the now terrified bank teller a smile, and although she cannot see it, I know she can hear it in my voice. “Excuse me, miss, I would like to make a sizeable withdrawal.”


End file.
